


Warpaint

by TooDistasteful



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Backstory, F/F, Slow Burn, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-12 12:58:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10491429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooDistasteful/pseuds/TooDistasteful
Summary: In the wreckage of her life, a little shadow will rise from the rubble.Eventual Som.Va, slow burn. Starts with Sombra's childhood. Companion piece may be incoming for Hana's backstory.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I need to learn to write things at a reasonable hour. I'm going to apologise for the prologue - it's short, and not very well-written. If anybody would like to beta read for me in the future, I'd be appreciative.

**Prologue**

* * *

 

The setting sun in Dorado may as well have been the eighth wonder of the natural world for a child growing up during the war. Miguel smiled, something genuine and proud as he stood holding his small football in his hands, the white and black glistening in the fading sun. His friends called out behind him, the eight of them enjoying a rare moment of agreed upon peace. With no sirens blasting, no omnics ransacking the city, and the streets actually clean, it had been the first day they had been able to play in ages. The war raged and ebbed, as did most rivers and other such things that ran a course, his mother said. His father had been killed when he was too young to remember.

His friends called to him again. He had asked them to stop calling him ‘ _Miguel_ ’, though most of the other boys simply teased. _“That’s your name, isn’t it?”_ He supposed that it was. Small hands clutched the ball a little tighter as he pondered things no five-year-old should ever have to. They had made fun of him for growing out his hair, too, a side-swoop with a careful shave to one side that his mother had added violet to, per his request. He told her often that he felt like a girl, and she supported him. She called him by his chosen name, even called him ‘she’ when she remembered to. It made him feel warm inside. His friends thought it was weird.

The red, orange, and pink of the sunset sprawling in front of him momentarily distracted him from his woes. It had been so long since Mama had let him out to play. She always talked about the dangers of their world now. “Remember, _mijo_ , not all demons have red skin and fangs. We’re at war – and the beast we feed will win.” He didn’t even try to pretend to understand what she meant, but the glittering, metal bodies that stormed his home often did the job of scaring him. The screens posted in homes and shops alike all showed the omnium's rise to power, and their struggles with Overwatch. He prayed every night before bed that those heroes would come and save them all, that they would realise they were dying by the hundreds and swoop in to save them. Sometimes he even fantasised that he was one of them. The thought filled him with a righteous pride, as he considered how one might use a football as a weapon for justice.

The first scream tore him from his fanciful daydreaming.

Miguel dropped his football and ran as quickly as his feet would carry him. Instinct told him to flee, and he was good at it. He was light and thin, with knobby little knees and a white bandage over a small cut on one. Though his shoes were old and worn, a ragged pair they had found at a second-hand stall, he made them last, pounding the pavement and stones with his heart beating so hard it felt like it may break out of his chest. The first volley of shots rang out as men and women, his countrymen, began to flee the streets. With a sweat breaking out on his brow, he skidded around the corner, towards home. He hadn’t bothered going back for his friends – they wouldn’t have been there, and they wouldn’t be looking for him. None of them stayed when the shooting began; it was nothing personal. Survival was important.

He dove behind a dumpster as the first of the omnic troops crashed through the marketplace, smashing the piñatas their parents had set up for them earlier. His little face screwed up, and fists balled tight, he fought back tears. The sunset he had so admired reflected off of the Bastion units marching through his home, turning the beauty of red, orange and pink into something vile and unknown.

The nearest Bastion shot down an elderly woman who hadn’t made it into her home. He mouthed the words, _“Lo siento,”_ wishing that there was something that he could have done. But not hiding just meant being killed, like the rest of them.

Several Bastion units hunkered down, turrets in the market that opened fire on anything that moved. He bit back a whine, arms over his head as he curled into the foetal position behind his dumpster, and waited. It felt like an eternity with his heart thumping in his chest so hard, eyes wide through it all, staring at the shadows as they played on the wall he lay before. He listened to the screams as people were dragged from their homes en masse to be executed, some firing back, and others pleading for their lives. Children, the elderly, men, women – it didn’t matter to omnics.

Everything they touched died. That was one thing he could rely on.

“Please, please, you can’t just be metal, you have to listen, I have a family, _ay Dios mio_ , please – “ He began to count. Ratatatat, one. Bang, two. He was too young to know what came after forty, and he restarted there. The light of sunset faded quickly enough and he screwed his eyes shut, hands over his ears as he tried not to cry. He wished he was home with Mama, he wished that he was anywhere but stuck there. She would have been worried sick over him.

In the hours that followed, he wet himself, felt his nose begin to drip as he silently sobbed, trying to move and make as little sound as was possible. The omnics who accompanied the Bastion units seemed smarter, and he wedged himself a little further down behind the dumpster. They left before morning, with pools and splatters of sticky red and other bits of people floating in their streets.

Miguel hiccoughed, gathered his nerve, and set off for home, rubbing furiously at his eyes with his forearm. Smoke clouded his vision and filled his lungs, fires raging where the omnics had chosen to set them. They owned Dorado, not the people. How foolish of any of them to forget.

He returned to rubble. Some part of him was not surprised, but he agonized nonetheless, falling onto his knees with a short wail. It wasn’t wise, making noise with omnics so close, but he did so anyway, grasping the pale hand extended from the rubble. Cold. Lifeless.

And just like that, he had lost everything. No home, no family. It felt so senseless, so surreal to have left home and returned to nothingness. He sat there for as long as he could before running away, unsure of what he would do now.

The world was unforgiving in many ways. Miguel had no way of knowing then, but things could always get worse.


	2. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 5am. Why does this always happen.

Chapter One: Home

* * *

  
  
The war would end, as they all did. It was this thought that helped Miguel sleep through the nights, often climbing into the little trash his city could afford to throw away and making it his home. He was dirty and had nothing, but he was alive. The smallest sound would wake him from the dead of his sleep, heart pounding in his ears and chest. He dreamt of his mother frequently, when he dreamt at all.

He lost track of the days between when he had last seen her smile and the present. He had no pictures to remember her by, no article of clothing or silly momento. All that he had were his memories, worthless wisps of things he could already feel himself forgetting. A smile, the way her laughter sounded like the chiming of the bells at the old church, but softer. The way he had wanted to be exactly like her, right down to stealing her name as his own. The way she had so lovingly shaved the side of his head, which had more than grown back now. He wanted to clip it, but what could he do? People weren’t exactly throwing out scissors and razors that were usable, when things like that were so hard to come by.

The way she had said of him, _“She is my daughter,”_ even as his friends screwed up their faces in confusion. He felt the tears build-up behind his eyes again, pressure against a dam he was forced to repair any time he reflected on his former life, a time before he had become one of the many forgotten. His story was hardly unique, he had learnt from his short time on the streets. He was doing better than most – he still remembered where he came from.

The first person to show him kindness was an older woman who thought he was a girl. In spite of everything, Miguel smiled when she approached, a shambling, shuffling walk.

“I’ve seen you out here, _mija_. You run too fast for my old legs to catch you, most days,” she confessed, and he remembered noting that the wrinkles on her skin, weathered and tan, reminded him of the fragile lines his mother had drawn between stars for him. Entire constellations spanned her face, stories of years she had lived and things she had seen, people she had known or had been herself, before her youth had finally left her. Her eyes sparkled brightly, what little of them could still be seen past her squinting and the leather of her brow. “The streets are no place for a little girl. Tell me, what is your name?”

A girl. His chest swells, thinking back to his mother agreeing that he was her daughter. Calling him by his preferred name, calling him ‘she’. He didn’t even call himself that, most of the time, because it wasn’t something he had ever dared to allow himself to think of himself as. Now, though, here were people who didn’t know him as Miguel, asking for his name. “María,” he sputtered, hoping she wouldn’t catch onto the way he sucked in a breath, hopeful. “My name is María.”

If she suspected a thing, she didn’t show it. His shoulders slumped in relief. “It’s nice to meet you, María.” It was the most genuine thing he had heard in ages, the old woman shuffling closer and patting him on the shoulder once. “How long have you been out here?”

A question he genuinely didn’t know the answer to. He shrugged, looking towards his tattered sneakers in shame. “And your parents?” He shook his head, feeling the tears pricking his eyes before he could even hope to stop them. “Then you will come with me. I run a small orphanage – oh, don’t look at me like that, _mija,_ not by myself. Goodness, not with knees like these.”

Orphanage. The word _orphan_ hadn’t crossed his mind until then, and it hit him so suddenly he had to take a step back. Now that he had heard it, the word wouldn’t stop playing in his head, over and over like some sick joke. _Orphan, orphan, orphan. You’re an orphan._ He had lost everybody who had known him, or cared about him. How long had he managed to survive on scraps people threw out?

He wanted to get a good look at himself, see what he looked like now. His feet felt cramped in his shoes, it had to have been some time if he had grown. “We’ll have fresh clothing and a hot meal for you. It’s better than letting the state-run institutions find you, trust me _mija._ ” And he did trust her. He nodded, little chest swelling as he attempted to find bravery. This was likely his one shot at a new life, and they both knew it.

“Yes,” he agreed, voice hoarse after so long scrounging for water and meals, without another soul to talk to. Sometimes he spoke to himself, but rarely. She gave him a pitying look that made him uncomfortable, and took his hand.

“Let’s get you back home then,” was all that she said next. The rest of their walk, she chattered idly with him, about things that didn’t seem to matter at all, and things that mattered a great deal. He hung on her every word, and smiled when she laughed. It was a rusty, tinkling thing. He could only imagine what she had been like in her youth.

When the walk grew too long, she panted, and he slowed himself down to keep her pace. She was stubborn, he knew then, watching as she passed a number of benches, some torn and tattered from bullets, and others still pristine, their way of pretending that nothing had happened. “You know, I hear they’ve managed to start battling the omnics back,” she stated, coughing into her fist afterwards. It bubbled and rasped, “Good riddance. I never much cared for war… it will be nice to see the end of it.”

They passed out of the city, and for the first time, he noticed the basket under the weathered old crone’s arm. She had been shopping, then. “Oh, I make this walk everyday,” she stated, as if she knew what he was thinking, “One basket would hardly be enough for all of my children, hm?” Every day. She walked that path every day 

Miguel – no, _Mar_ _í_ _a_ clenched his little fist, vowing to accompany her on her future walks. He knew to distrust most people, but Josefina (as he came to find out her name was during some of her rambling) was not someone he felt the need to protect himself from. “Ah, there it is, you see? Up on that hill.”  
  
And see he did. A grassy expanse, seemingly untouched by the fire raids the omnics had done on Dorado itself spanned before them, a few small cabins and a house in the middle ahead. He heard children laughing, and the voices of a few other adults. He hadn’t expected anything quite so grand. “The cabins are new,” Josefina stated with no small amount of pride, “My sons built them for me when I told them my plans. They are… were such good boys.” María didn’t miss the hint of sadness that followed, moving almost imperceptibly closer to the old woman. Uncharacteristically bold, he moved his fingers through hers, noting her surprise 

“The war takes something from all of us, I suppose,” she murmured, expression something he had never seen before. He didn’t know how to interpret the way her mouth became this pursed, pensive sort of line on her face, or the sadness that danced behind her eyes 

“I’m a boy.” He wasn’t sure why he said it, though she didn’t seem surprised.

“Are you a boy, or were you just told that by doctors?” She reminded him of his mother in this way, and he noticed that their walking had stopped to accommodate this little bit of conversation. “I’ve lived a long time, _mija._ I’ve known girls who were born and told they were boys, boys who were born and told they were girls, and people who weren’t boys or girls but felt stuck in one body or the other before. You would hardly be the first trans child I have come across.”

 _Trans_. That word made him feel like an alien, almost. His mother had never once said it. “I…” He knew his answer, or so he thought. So then, what was he afraid of? Why did it feel like someone had hollowed his bones and made his veins ice? “I’m María,” he said carefully, “I’m a girl, but…”

“They make medicine for that, _mija_ ,” she stated, batting a hand in his direction. “If you are a girl, there is no but. Girls come in many bodies. Some less expected than others, but all as valid as the next.”  

He laughed, a rasping little sound. The relief that flooded through him brought tears about again, which he wiped away furiously. His mother had cautioned him that the world could be cruel, but Josefina had been anything but. Perhaps she was one of the good people his mother had told him about. “I will do my best to get you the medicine you’ll need, if that’s what you want. We can talk about it more later. But for right now, how about we get you cleaned up inside, into some new clothes, and put some food in you, hm?”

On cue, his stomach rumbled, small hands flocking to cover it in embarrassment. “No need for that, I could tell you were hungry to look at you. _Barriga llena, corazón contento._ Let’s get a smile on that face.” She shuffled onwards, and he marvelled at the slight hump in her back, how she seemed so strong but so frail at the same time. He followed behind her, a little shadow.

Her home was small, but nice. Several children ran past as she opened the door, laughing and screaming. Josefina seemed to know exactly when to dodge to avoid being trampled, with her newest charge barely darting behind her in time. She chuckled, and moved towards the little kitchen dead ahead.

The walls were an eggshell blue, faded in places by time or various stains. “You can hardly keep anything nice,” the old woman explained, as if she knew what he was looking at, “Too many of the kids fussing with things. Still, I wouldn’t trade a single one of them for any part of my wall back.” He believed her. “Antonio! We have a new guest!” The bellow startled him, left him jumping back several feet even as Josefina tutted. “You’ll have to get used to loud noises again. I know the war took parts of that from all of us, hm. Antonio is my grandson – he can show you to my shower. I’ll have some of the girls bring some clothes for you.” 

Antonio was old for a grandson, honestly. He looked to be at least twice her age, if not in his late teens. He appeared when called, however, and was smiling brightly. He had nice teeth and hair, and a cute little mole under his right eye. He could tell he was going to like him.

María followed him to the shower, and was left alone with the promise of clothes outside of the door when he was done. He stripped, set the water as hot as he could get it, stepped inside and sighed. His first shower in months felt like a slice of heaven. He’d hated bath time, before. It had seemed like such a chore – he was never going to take it for granted ever again.

When he came out of the shower, he got a good look at himself after crawling up the vanity to reach the mirror a bit more easily. Where once he had had part of his head shaved, it was now about chin-length. The rest was past his shoulder blades, falling in wet and messy curls about him. There wasn’t any sign left of the purple his mother had put in his hair, a little knot forming in his stomach at the thought that the only real piece of her that he had had left was gone.

He brushed his teeth, another small luxury, and climbed down. As promised, there were clothes outside of the door, a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, or a little sundress. He opted for the dress, at least for now.

The day quickly melted into night, as some of the other girls did his hair in a large, pleated braid with the soft swoop of his bangs still to one side. The meal Josefina made for them all was delicious, and he ate so much he nearly threw up.

The best part, however, was going to the girls’ bunk and being told that he had a bed now. His own bed, not a small one cramped in a tiny home to share with his mother. He swallowed hard, as Josefina finished introductions. “This is María, everyone, for those who didn’t meet her at supper. She’ll be staying with us as long as she needs. I trust you’ll all be helpful in showing her around.” _Her, she._

María had never felt so welcomed, or validated, not by strangers. The other girls questioned nothing, save for the usual questions about hometown, family, favourite colours.

She was home again, finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everybody who's had the time to leave kudos so far. It means a lot to me that people are reading this at all. c: I'll hopefully have another chapter ready soon-ish. I'm aiming to be decently on pace with this one. The next chapter is where things really start to get moving, so I'm excited to finish it up and share it with all of you!


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